Road rage on the bay. It is rare among fishermen, but it happens.
I snuck another glance back. Standing high above me, he responded with the peace sign and blew me another kiss. He appeared to be enjoying himself. Scared as I was, that made me mad. On my throttle is a trim switch that can tilt the engine clear of the water. I used it and held tight. The chines of the Maverick threatened to break free when the engine lifted. Soon my propeller was shooting water like a fire hose into Sam’s boat.
I didn’t see what happened, but the finesse worked. When I looked again, the catamaran was dolphining wildly off course, kicking a wake of Styrofoam and mud. It gave me some breathing room. I kept watch while exiting the clam lease and got my boat trimmed, the whole time expecting cartoon Sam’s engine to stall in a tangle of nylon.
It didn’t happen. Somehow he’d dodged enough lines to keep going and was circling back. No idiotic grin on his face now. He reached for something and came up with a short-handled gaff-a stainless hook attached to a pole. It was a threat; he wanted me to see it. I acknowledged the threat with a middle finger, not the peace sign. His gravelly voice was oddly high-pitched for whatever it was he hollered. Then he buried the throttle and came at me full speed.
I was already moving, but not in the direction of my dock. Enraged people lose their ability to reason. I was counting on that; wanted him too mad to think or see clearly. At the wheel with my back to him, I used a middle finger again as if I, too, were having fun-and, truth is, I did feel a wild moment of abandonment.
There was no time to gauge what effect my taunting had. Ahead was a jumble of islands, all uninhabited. Between lay a mile of thin water, the bottom pocked with potholes and oyster bars, some visible, some not. I knew those bars well. So did my Uncle Jake back in the days when he’d taken Katharine Hepburn oystering. The winter months are best, always on a spring low tide. Jake would equip me with boots and gloves so I could wade those jagged shoals without getting cut to ribbons.
As I knew, the biggest oysters lay in troughs between the bars on the bottom that was never exposed. One of those troughs was half the width of my skiff. That was wide enough.
I steered toward it and ignored Sam, who was angling to cut off my escape. I triangulated the distance by instinct. Unless he actually intended to ram me, he would have to reduce speed, then turn sharply, to stay on my tail.
That’s what happened. I flew past him, flipped another bird, and let my wake mask a trough through an oyster ridge that was also masked by water. Sam swung too wide. I didn’t see what transpired, but I heard it. The howl of an outboard slamming aground is as distinctive as a braying donkey. The staccato Hee-haw-haw is similar, minus the metallic edge if a propeller is sheered.
When I heard metal, I knew I was safe yet didn’t slow until I found a pothole deep enough to drop off plane.
I looked back.
The black catamaran, with its tower and twin Yamahas, sat exposed in a foot of water. It looked like a trophy on a pedestal. At least one of its propellers had been bent. Yosemite Sam had managed to stay aboard, but that would be hard to prove because he was wet and mud-splattered from the soaking my engine had given him.
“If you stopped to gather oysters,” I yelled, “it’s better when the tide goes out. By then, you’ll need a boat with wheels.”
I expected profanity, untethered rage. Instead, the man shrugged in a sheepish way and replied, “You ever have one of those days? Some of the dumb things I do, I swear, there’re times I don’t think I got a brain in my head. Especially when I’m trying to impress a pretty woman.” He commented on his bent propeller, then asked, “You ain’t mad, are you?”
My lord… the guy was deranged. Or was he acting? There was some nasal Cracker in his voice, but the accent had a guttural tinge. German, Pennsylvania Dutch… no telling. Maybe this was satire, his parody of Southerners and other hicks.
The possibility implied a slyness-and an intellect-that scared me, as did his size-a huge head, chest, and hands. Yet I did my best to show a brave front.
I switched off my engine. “What’s wrong with you? This morning, you saw we had a fish on and intentionally cut us off. Then you pull a stunt like this? If I wanted to press charges, I’ve got my clients as witnesses.”
“Uh-oh, I knew it. You’re mad. Serves me right, I guess.” This was said in the glum way of a child who’d been scolded. He swung down to the deck with surprising agility. The catamaran hull tilted beneath his weight. “All I wanted was to get a closer look.”
“At a fish? We lost a big snook because of you. Then you nearly swamped us.”
“Sure am sorry,” he said, “but you’re wrong about my reasons. My clients catch plenty of fish. What I wanted was a closer look at you.”
Good God. Now he was hitting on me?
I said, “How many beers have you had today? If you’re not drunk, you’ve lost your mind.”
“Hell, I’ll admit it. Probably a little of both. Here, I’ll prove it”-he began pawing through a console drawer-“I got a fishing magazine someplace with your picture on the front. A real pretty one. I was bragging to my clients about it. Then there you were, stealing one of my best snook holes. Not that I minded, ’cause of who you are. Like fate, you know?”
Snewk, he pronounced the word, but with difficulty. Maybe I was right. It was an act.
“You claim to be a guide? You should buy a bus and stick to bridge fishing. I’ve never seen you or your boat in my life.”
“Starstruck, I guess some call it,” he replied. “Then I go and make a damn fool out of myself after you gave me the finger back there. Flirting-you knew what you was doing. How you expect a man to act?” He gave up on the drawer and opened a cabinet. “That dang magazine’s here someplace.”
I said, “You stay away from me, understand? I reported this to the Coast Guard. Next time, I’ll swear out a warrant.”
“Ain’t there some way to make this right? I’ll buy you dinner. Champagne, the whole works. Or do you like to dance? I’ve been taking lessons. Big as I am”-he did a waltzing two-step across the deck to illustrate-“tango is a specialty, but I prefer swing dancing.” He spun an invisible partner, then was done with it and peered over the side, seeing scuttling crabs and a mountain range of oysters. “I don’t suppose you have a shovel I can borrow?” After a beat, he added, “Or a bottle of Tabasco?”
No twang when he said this, which confirmed it was all a charade. Same with his slow, sinister smile, teeth bared, beneath a mustache the size of a boomerang. “Know what might be fun? Sit here with a case of beer and eat oysters, just the two of us, until we’re both so damn horny that, later, down the road, you won’t mind when I tell you to stay out of my goddamn snook spots.”
I said, “What?”
“You heard me. Chartering’s just like any other business, honey. Sex and marketing.” He glared for a moment, then slammed a hatch open, done with me, too.
Eerie, the feeling I got, the two of us out here alone, separated only by a few yards of water and walls no higher than the gunnel of my boat. What if he had a gun inside that hatch? What if he came after me on foot or bulled his boat off the bar faster than anticipated?
I started my engine, snuck a few photos of him, and the boat’s registration numbers, then sped away.
It was half past four. I was late.
TEN
Kermit’s daughter, Sarah, appeared on the dock as I was tying up. She had an orange in her hand. “Daddy said I’m supposed to give you this. He seems in a hurry to leave, but he’s always like that. And to thank you for letting us take samples from your trees.”